A Winchester Family Christmas
by Persephone Price
Summary: AU. Takes place post-'The Sound of Silence' in my Claire 'Verse, so Dean/OC. Pretty much exactly what it sounds like - Christmas with the whole gang. (Two parts).
1. Merry Christmas

**A/N: I don't even know. I hope you all like it lol. Takes place post-'The Sound of Silence.' I'm not usually that into fluff, but… This just happened. **

**Disclaimer: I only own my OCs.**

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><p><strong>A Winchester Family Christmas: I<strong>

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><p><em>December 20, 2014<em>

"Hey, Sammy… I got a question for you…"

"Shoot," the younger Winchester says without looking up.

"You… You still have Mom's ring, right?"

Sam straightens and tears his eyes off of his issue of _Time, _only to see his brother standing awkwardly in the doorway with an enigmatic look stretched across his features.

He folds the magazine. "Yeah, why?" Dean's lip twitches, and realization surges over him like a flash flood. His eyebrows lift, and he smiles so broadly that his dimples fold into harsh lines. "You're-you're gonna ask Claire-"

Dean shushes him almost violently, pressing his index finger to his lips. He drifts further into the room and closes the door behind him.

Taking his voice down a decibel, Sam persists, "You're gonna ask Claire to marry you?"

He shrugs, like it's no big deal. "I mean, it's been a while since we closed the Gates, and Mary's two… Pretty soon she's gonna start askin' questions…"

Sam doesn't share his cavalier attitude. "Dude, how long have you been planning this?"

"You know me, Sammy-boy. Not too big on plannin'. I'm more of a seat-of-my-pants kinda guy," he says with a crooked grin, nevertheless shifting uncomfortably under his brother's mawkish gaze. He wishes he would stop looking at him with such unchecked admiration.

Just as he predicted (and intended), Sam's expression changes upon hearing this. He narrows his eyes, pressuring his older sibling into a genuine answer.

With an exasperated scoff, Dean elaborates, "A while, okay? Sheesh I dunno – it's been in the back of my mind since before Purgatory, even. But we never had time for that crap – not until now, at least."

There's a pause, during which time Sam starts to rifle through his desk drawers.

"You don't mind, do you?" the elder Winchester says to fill the lull, as though it had only just occurred to him that he might. In reality, he'd been warring with the idea of asking him for over a month. Sam has the ring… Sam has the ring because he was going to give it to Jess. This in and of itself makes Dean's heart twinge, because he's _taking something away from his brother_, he's taking away that memory, that opportunity, he's reminding him of all he's lost.

"Of course not," he says easily, without missing a beat. His hazel eyes are hidden as he searches, but Dean doesn't need to see them to know he's sincere.

And why wouldn't he be? He likes Claire almost as much as he does. What Dean is feeling is only the byproduct of his self-destructive, ceaseless ability to blame himself for everything that has ever gone wrong in their lives.

Sam dusts off the small, black velvet box before offering it to his brother. He's still smiling unyieldingly.

"Good luck, man," he says.

He holds the innocuous box in his hand, testing it. The fabric feels foreign against his skin, the weight deceptive – it carries with it so more than can be perceived.

Dean smiles without showing his teeth. "Thanks." He only adds _'little brother'_ mentally.

. . .

_December 23, 2014_

"Dean, I have to ask you something," Claire starts, trying futilely to contain a flailing Mary. Eventually she surrenders and allows her to waddle around the library in the bunker, nevertheless keeping a close watch on her. She makes her way over to the tree, which, thankfully, they've only decorated starting halfway up.

"Sure," he replies, watching their flaxen-haired daughter grab fistfuls of pine needles. Her blonde locks are pinned back by a glittery red bow, and she's wearing a Christmas-themed jumper. Dean had had words to say about the corniness of the outfit, but even he can't deny how adorable she looks.

"So, I know we're having everyone over here for Christmas…" she prefaces. "But how would you feel about going to my parents' for New Years?"

Dean snaps his gaze to Claire, giving her his full attention. His irises mirror the evergreen.

"It's just… They're still Mary's grandparents, even if I haven't seen them in years… I talked to them, and they want to meet her… It might be good, you know, for them…"

"Okay," he agrees fluidly.

"Okay? Just like that?" she questions in surprise.

"Yeah, sure. You're right – Mary should meet her grandparents. She's getting older. It's definitely overdue."

"And _you're _fine with meeting my parents?"

At this, he shoots her a lazy grin. "I've faced worse, I'd say." He wraps his arm around her shoulders and pulls her to him; she slumps against his chest automatically, pressing his clasped hands above her heart.

"Thanks," she murmurs.

"You don't haveta thank me," he replies, a bit confused. "You've got every right to want Mary to meet your parents. That kid is growing like a weed, and if we teach her anything, it's gotta be how important family is."

"I know, it's just… Things with my parents have been really strained ever since what happened with my brothers, and it means a lot that you'll be there with me when I go. It's… It's been so long since I last saw them – I _need_ you there with me."

"Of course," he says, kissing the top of her head. With the exception of Sam, who still occupies a secure place in Dean's heart, they've each replaced the void their families left with one another.

It's like she can read his mind. "Sam can come too, obviously…"

Dean sucks the inside of his cheek, before replying, "It might be best if it's just us. It's already gonna be a whole lot for them to take in at once, without adding Sasquatch into the mix."

"Yeah, maybe… Will he be okay here?"

With how much maternal concern she demonstrates for his brother, it's sometimes hard to remember she's actually a year younger than he is. He says, "I'm sure he'll be fine. Jody or Kev will stay, I guarantee it, and Cas is always here anyway."

"Okay," she consents. "Thanks. Again."

He spins her around so she's facing him, shooting one last cursory glance over her shoulder to make sure Mary's not getting into trouble, before giving the redhead his undivided attention. "Claire. If this were the other way around, you wouldn't even give it a second thought, would you?"

She shakes her head, confirming his assertion.

"So, don't give this a second thought. I wanna meet your parents. I want Mary to meet her grandparents. I don't want you to feel like it's a favor, babe – I'm only doing what's right by everyone." He kisses her softly, urging her to understand what his words weren't quite able to communicate.

She understands, just as she always does.

The moment is shattered swiftly. Out of nowhere, piney-fresh Mary wedges herself between her parents, apparently feeling left out. "Daddy _no,_" she babbles, flinging her arms above her head as an indication for him to pick her up.

He obliges, making a show of it. "You're gettin' heavy," he complains dramatically, a smile nonetheless illuminating his handsome face. Dean has settled into fatherhood like he was made for it.

Claire smiles, too. The little girl looks exactly like him, apart from her eyes. It's uncanny, really; Dean would have made a beautiful girl, and she tells him so daily, much to his dismay.

The little girl turns to her mother. "Mama, where's Auntie Jody?" she bleats.

"I already told you, sweetheart. She's coming tomorrow."

"She's gonna bring me a pwesent?"

"You already have plenty of presents," Dean interjects.

"No Daddy, I want a Palala, like you!"

"An Impala," he corrects, beaming. "And how d'you know there's not already one under the tree, huh?"

"A'cause none of the boxes are big enough!" she shrieks giddily.

He kisses her chubby cheek loudly, eliciting another cascade of giggles. "You're a smart one, kiddo," he praises. "Got that from your Uncle Sammy."

Mary's blue eyes go wide. "Is Uncle Sammy gonna get me a Palala?" she questions seriously, voice low.

"I don't know," Claire humors her. "Maybe!"

"Or maybe Santa'll bring one," Dean adds.

"Santa can't come here," she scoffs theatrically, as though the notion is absurd. "There's no chiminniney!" She squirms riotously in his arms, but simultaneously tightens her grip around his neck, preventing him from putting her down.

"Ah," he says, bracing himself. "My mistake." The two parents share a furtive look, silently acknowledging that their child is a know-it-all whirlwind of energy.

And Dean thinks, fleetingly, this is the happiest he has ever been.

. . .

_December 24, 2014_

The bunker is livelier now than ever before. The non-Winchester survivors of the war are all here: Castiel, Kevin, Mrs. Tran, and Jody Mills. Christmas tunes filter through the intercoms, which were at one time used to sound alarms and various other end-of-the-world signals. _Silent Night_ is playing, and Kevin, now a freshman, is already three too many eggnogs deep. His mother is berating him, all the while treating herself to a refill of her own.

Dean and Sam are sticking to beer.

"So, college-boy," Dean says slyly to Kevin, "how're the chicks at Princeton?"

"Obsessed with school," Kevin admits, sound wizened and world-weary at the ripe old age of twenty. He's changed so much since they first met him, grown so much. Hearing he got into Princeton had, in a way, it almost made everything else worth it. The only problem is, it doesn't matter nearly as much to him now as it did before.

"Figured," Dean snorts. "Pro-tip? Hang around the sports teams and sororities."

"You didn't even go to college, Dean," Sam points out wryly.

"Yeah, well, I've hung around enough to know the tricks of the trade, let's just say," he replies with a wink.

Sam rolls his eyes, but Kevin grins.

Claire, meanwhile, is conversing with Jody, her surrogate mother – she is to her, in some ways, what Bobby was to the Winchesters. They're just glad that, _unlike_ Bobby, she made it through the fight in one piece.

But the brothers try not to think about Bobby, because thinking about Bobby reminds them of everything else they have lost, when now is a time to dwell instead on what they have _gained._ And, to be fair, they have gained quite a bit recently.

Still, Bobby's ghost haunts them as though he were still around. His memory is like an infected wound – it stings every time they go anywhere near it, so they just avoid the topic entirely to stave off the pain.

Bobby never should have died. John and Mary Winchester shouldn't have died, either, but Bobby was killed by a _bullet_. After everything he endured, how could such a resilient person die by something so mundane? He survived vengeful spirits, Leviathans, demons – you name it. And yet he was killed by cold metal.

Dean shakes this from his head and takes a swig of his beer, eyes scanning the scenery.

Claire has decorated the bunker to the best of her ability, but garlands and candy-canes can't conceal how bizarre this place is, how far removed it is from a normal home.

The Winchester brothers watch as Castiel attempts to wrangle Mary.

"Uncle Cassie!" she screeches, unreasonably happy to see someone she sees every single day. She circles him like a hyperactive vulture, pulling at the hem of his trench coat and making it impossible for him to move. "Play tea party!"

"Dean, your offspring is simmering with energy. Has she consumed too much chocolate again?" he deadpans, looking helpless.

"Nah, that's _au_ _naturel_," he replies with a smirk. "They don't call it the terrible twos for nothin'."

"She's a wild one," Sam agrees. He nudges his brother and adds, "You'd better watch out."

Dean looks vexed, but doesn't respond.

Cas' blue gaze flits down once more to his knee-level. "Child, I have told you many times, I am not your-"

"Uncle Cassie _pwease_!"

Castiel sighs heavily. "Fine. But I refuse to play Miss Muffet this time." Cas then allows the pint-sized terror to lead him into another room, where her cache of toys is stored. Dean would never admit it, but between all of them, his daughter is beginning to get spoiled.

She's a tiny, yet unimaginably bright ray of sunlight in an otherwise bleak world, and they're all drawn to her like moths to a flame. Even stoic Cas isn't immune to her charms, as evidenced by his willingness to don women's clothing at her command.

This time, however, Cas is lucky. He is rescued from any profound (or YouTube-worthy) humiliation when Claire calls everyone to the table.

Dinner was a group effort, with Dean at the helm. Castiel set the table, Claire baked the desserts, and Sam and Dean cooked the main course – turkey and ham, with various side dishes.

This is Sam's first real Christmas with his family, and Bobby's words ring truer than ever – family don't end in blood. It makes more sense now, for some reason.

He's had apple-pie Christmases before, so that's not what's changed. There was that year with Amelia, and years ago with Jess. But spending the holidays with someone else's family only puts your own's deficiencies into sharp, unbearable focus. In all those other people's houses, he never really felt at home.

Seeing Dean and Claire and Mary, Sam longs for a family of his own. Life moves on, brothers grow up. He always felt different, separate, but he never felt he was meant to be alone like this.

But how can he ever search out what his brother stumbled upon? They only had one prophet, as far as he knows and, now that he's wiser, he wants someone who understands, who understands who he is and what he's been through. The thing is, the people who understand drop like flies.

Tonight, though, is not about him.

He watches his brother out of the corner of his eye. That velvet box is burning a hole in his pocket, he can tell. He's fidgeting, brushing his hand over the area like it's not obvious he's hiding something. And it's not, it's not obvious – it's only obvious to Sam, who always saw everything Dean didn't want him to.

Dean suddenly feels his younger brother's hand burning into his arm. A small smile curls one side of his lip, speaking words that neither of them would utter aloud.

. . .

_December 25, 2014_

The next morning, it snows. Not a heavy snow, just a light, powdery layer. The type of half-assed snow that leaves you wondering, "What was the point?" It dusts the treetops and the grass outside the bunker, dusts the midnight-black top of the Impala and the other cars.

Mary, after eviscerating her presents (which included a model replica of the Impala, to her delight), insists on building a snowman. "Like _Fwozen_," she had crooned, and Dean nearly tore his hair out because if he had to watch that movie one more time-

So, Claire bundles her in her winter coat, earmuffs, and mittens, and Sam gladly hauls her outside, resting her atop his gargantuan shoulders as she squeals happily. The child's parents and the rest of their houseguests follow.

Dean never imagined he could feel so nervous about something so ordinary. But, as he sequesters Claire away from the pack with the lame explanation of "I gotta talk to you," he can't help but feel anxiety coil in his gut.

He leads her to a part of the property that isn't marred by the looming presence of the bunker, an open field iced with a plane of snow that is completely untouched apart from several rabbit-tracks.

Claire's cheeks and nose have already gone rosy in the cold, and he thinks she's possibly the most beautiful she's ever looked.

"What is it, Dean?" she asks quizzically. Her confusion is even more apparent went her light eyebrows draw together.

"We've been together for a while, now," he prefaces. He scours his brain cells for the right words, prays that he can find them just this once. "Comin' up on five years."

"Yeah," she murmurs, her breath visible. She has no clue where he's going with this, but she knows something is off.

"And I, well… Now that the Gates are closed, we can stop worrying about the present all the time and start thinking about the future. You know me – you know I don't think more than an hour in advance," he laughs self-deprecatingly. "But… Whenever I _do_ picture the future, I can't picture it with anyone other than you." He pauses, gauging her reaction, and his eyes read hers desperately.

"You know I feel the same way," she says cautiously, as though it's obvious. "I could never be away from you. I-I love you," she blurts out, matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, I, uh, I love you too," he says. He fishes around in his pocket for a moment, before his fingers finally reach their destination. He swallows, the muscle in his jaw working, before he extracts box and continues, "Which is why I wanted to-to ask you… Claire, will you marry me?"

She clamps both hands over her mouth, utterly in shock. She stammers wildly for several moments, before eventually managing, "Ar-are you serious?!"

He looks somewhat nervous, an unsure smile creeping across his face. "What, you want me to get down on one knee?" he quips.

"Wha-I-no," is her garbled response. She can't get anything else out before she flings herself at him, embracing him so forcefully she almost knocks the ring out of his hand.

"Is that a yes?" he chuckles into the fabric of her coat.

"Yes," she exclaims, kissing him quickly.

"Good," he says, struggling to keep his smile under control. "I was gettin' worried." He opens the box and slips the ring onto her finger. It's white gold, with a modest circular diamond in the center. It gleams, but only because he'd polished it beforehand – Claire can tell from the style that it's an old ring.

"It's beautiful," she says, studying it. "Was it-?"

"Yeah," he answers without missing a beat. "It was my mom's." They both stare at her left hand for several moments, before he goes on, "Now, we don't have to do anything fancy, but I think we should go to court at least. I want it to be official," he says. "I want it to mean something real. Written down, so everyone knows."

Touched, she replies, "Neither of us has been married before, unless you're leaving out a big secret… So… I mean…" She's struggling to present her argument in the right light. "Given the circumstances… Don't you think it might be nice to have it in a church?"

Dean's eyebrows arch; he's clearly taken aback by her response, but not adversely. "Really?"

"Well… It'll be legally binding, too…" Claire has actually thought about this frequently (c'mon, who wouldn't?), and given that she is (was?) a prophet and Dean helped close the Gates of Hell and stop the Apocalypse, she thinks getting married in a church seems like the right thing to do. Their lives are inextricable from religion, at this point – why not just try to embrace it?

"Maybe we could get Cas to officiate," he jokes.

"Oh my god," she laughs. "Can you imagine?"

He really can't, and he doesn't want to, either.

They're still smiling at each other like idiots when he says, "Hey, if you want it in a church, we'll have it in a church. Whatever you want. Just not too big."

"I don't even know anyone," she admits. "Biggest it could be is like twenty people."

Dean makes a face.

"Fine, we'll have it smaller."

"We don't have to do this right now," he says finally, his heart swelling as he realizes how eager she is.

"Claire Winchester," she tests. "Whaddyou think?"

His smile falters slightly. That surname… It's so much more than what it seems, so laden with meaning. He still can't shake the sense that it's a curse.

"Don't feel like you have to change your name," is all he says, giving her an out.

"I want to," she assures him. He can tell from the look in her eyes that she can decode the fears shining in his, and is consciously accepting the burden.

At heart, Dean doesn't know whether he's elated or devastated; but right now, it's impossible to feel anything other than elation.

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><p><strong>AN: Merry Christmas, everyone! And if you don't celebrate Christmas, well… Happy December! And Happy New Year! Thank you so much for reading, and hopefully you didn't OD on the fluffiness. Mary was so much fun to write.**

**Also. So. I know Dean wears Mary's silver wedding band on his right hand, but what they're talking about in the story is an **_**engagement **_**ring, which is different. I couldn't bear to make Dean part with that band. In my head-canon, Dean got the band and Sam got the ring, so they would each have a piece of their mother to remember her by. I figure Dean would want the band even though it's seemingly less significant, because it's something he can wear himself, whereas it'd be pretty awk for him to wear a woman's diamond ring. I figure Sam always wanted a family, so he could plan on giving it to his future wife. So Dean asking Sam for that ring is a big deal.**

**As for the church thing, you guys might disagree with me that Dean would be down for that. I don't really know, I went back and forth with it. I'm not really that religious, but Claire is supposed to be semi-religious. And I figure Dean would just go along with what she wanted. I don't know. I really have trouble gauging the Winchesters' views on religion, actually. I'd be interested to hear what you all think!**

**Let me know what you think, if it's not too much trouble :) :) **** I've got one more chapter in store for this puppy.**


	2. And a Happy New Year!

**A/N: Thank you so so much to toridw317, ImpalaLove, and sunshine1984 for reviewing! You guys are amazing and I'm so glad the fluff wasn't too much for you lol. I hope you enjoyed your holidays and I hope you all enjoy this chapter :)**

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><p><strong>A Winchester Family Christmas: II<strong>

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><p><em>December 25, 2014<em>

Sam notices his mother's ring glinting on Claire's finger immediately, and feels something warm and bittersweet prickle in his chest. He gently sets his niece down in the snow, grinning stupidly at his brother as the two tread towards them.

He can tell the elder Winchester is fighting valiantly against a grin of his own.

"Welcome back, guys," Kevin drawls slyly, no doubt suspecting they were up to no good.

"Congratulations," Sam blurts out, unwilling to give anyone else the satisfaction of drawing attention to it first.

Kevin, Mrs. Tran, Castiel, and Jody all share nonplussed expressions, before Jody's eyes hone in on Claire's hand and widen accordingly.

"Oh my god!" she exclaims, pulling the younger woman into a paralyzing embrace. She then turns to Dean, exuberant, and questions, "Seriously?!"

"Why is everyone asking me that?" he questions, scrunching his nose distastefully. "Yes, seriously."

Mrs. Tran also offers her congratulations, as does Kevin, though he seems a bit far-removed from the situation. They suppose it's hard for someone so young to relate.

"This is so weird," he ventures, voicing his thoughts. "After everything, it just seems so… normal."

"Tell me about it," Dean snorts. He scratches the back of his head uncomfortably and kicks the toe of his boot into the snow.

"It is odd," Castiel concurs. "But I am happy for you, my friends. Although, I do not see the point, seeing as you have obviously already participated in all the activities reserved for married couples-"

"_Okay_, Cas," Dean stunts him. "Thanks for that."

The product of said 'activities' is apparently feeling neglected. Mary whines, "Mama," slapping Claire's shins to get her attention.

"What is it, honey?" she asks, sweeping her into her arms.

"Uncle Sammy made a snowman," she announces, gesturing to a pathetic heap of snow behind the group.

"Tried to, at least," Sam adds with a stealthy smirk.

"Mary, do you know what just happened? Your daddy just asked your mommy to marry him," Jody tells the little girl, crouching slightly to meet her eye-level.

"Married?" she repeats, tasting the word. "I'm Mary!"

"No, sweetheart, they're going to have a wedding – like in the _Little Mermaid_, when Ariel wears the white dress."

Mary cranes her neck to stare at her mother, no doubt drawing the link between the two redheads. Then, she looks to her father. "Oh!" she exclaims happily, stubby legs kicking excitedly at the realization. "Mommies and daddies are always married!"

Dean's face is unreadable, but Claire winces awkwardly.

"Might wanna rethink drilling her with those traditional family values, Dean," Sam jokes.

"It's not me, it's all those goddamn Disney movies," he mutters, even though it is, in part, him. "What kinda kid likes princesses _and _ 'Palala's?"

"Yours, apparently," Kevin chimes in.

A fond smile pulls his lips, and Dean extracts his daughter from Claire's arms.

"C'mere, baby girl," he says, hugging her close to his chest.

Sam watches the exchange with great curiosity. He still hasn't quite gotten used to the idea of brother having a child. He could never picture it before, and now, even though he's confronted with the picture daily, it still seems surreal. _He_ was there when Mary was born because Dean was gone – Dean was _dead_ – and afterwards he took care of her – _loved her_ – as though she were his own. Three months passed. He witnessed each centimeter she grew, each tiny movement. He… He had braced himself for a lifetime of raising this little girl as his own daughter, and then, just as suddenly, Dean resurfaced.

Of course, Sam was elated. It was the most beautiful, miraculous thing, apart from maybe the first time his brother was resurrected. _Of course _he was thrilled to see his brother again, to see the reason for is existence spark back into being.

Mary was always Dean's – never his –, but she was also the closest he thought he would ever get to seeing his brother again. And so, in this way, she was his whole world because Dean had been his whole world. She was the life preserver both he and Claire clung to in the choppy wake of Dean's death. And then, Dean wasn't really dead, and he had to disband everything he'd prepared himself for. It wasn't an easy thing, but he'd been glad to do it. It was a relief, in a way; he knew he could never measure-up to his brother.

Because Dean is the best big brother he could have ever hoped for, and now he's the best father Mary could have ever hoped for, even if she doesn't know it yet. It sure as hell took Sam a while to realize just how lucky he was, but he'll never forget it.

He watched his brother grow into fatherhood just as he watched his niece grow during her first few months. Still, it feels foreign to see Dean so soft like this, so gentle, so vulnerable; perhaps it will always feel foreign. Before now he's only ever seen Dean dote on _him_, but it fills him with joy to see that he is happy. It just sometimes seems…

Too good to be true.

. . .

_December 30, 2014_

"Jesus, Dean, of course I'll be fine."

Ever since the Trials, Dean hasn't stepped down from his watchtower. He monitors Sam militantly, almost disbelieving that he could have fully rebounded from the state he was in.

And yet, Sam is fine. Sam is healthy. Sam, for all intents and purposes, seems back to his old self: a nerdy, sensitive contrarian who is consistently battling against his (very valid) worries.

"Okay," the elder Winchester relents. "It's only for a few days."

Claire is present but busy packing their bags, mentally steeling herself for a ten-hour car ride with a two year old.

Sam says, "I haven't been a kid for a long time, Dean. I can take care of myself."

Dean doesn't look convinced, but says nothing. He's fully aware that his brother is not a kid anymore, just as he knows his protectiveness is borderline irrational. But he can't help it – logic has never really helped him rein in his emotions, and Sam has already been taken away from him far too many times for him to ever let his guard drop.

"Have fun," the younger of the two goes on, eyes twinkling. He finds the idea of his brother meeting a girl's parents hilarious, even though he knows it's a bit childish. Really, Dean has made leaps and bounds in terms of his maturity, but Sam still remembers him as that roguish teen that used to sneak out in Dad's Impala to impress/pick up chicks.

_Dad's_ Impala became _Dean's _Impala, and is now becoming _Daddy's _Impala (well, 'Palala,' but same difference).

"Maybe you should take the fed threads," Sam baits. "You wanna make a good impression, right?"

"Yeah, _okay_," he drawls sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

"You're gonna be on your best behavior, right Dean?" Claire pipes in from one table over in the library.

He straightens his posture upon realizing she's been eavesdropping. "Of course!" he replies, sounding like he's lying. He and Sam share a good-humored, albeit wry look.

"No f-bombs at the dinner table," he tells him sagely.

"Dude," he scoffs, "I'm not stupid."

"Just trying to help," he says, putting his hands up in mock-surrender. To be fair, he thinks his advice is useful – he's met far more parents than his brother has, that's for sure. And when he sees Dean swearing colorfully at children's movies on a regular basis, it is, in fact, sometimes difficult to remember he can be civilized.

"I'm good," he assures him. He hasn't told him so, but it's Claire he's truly worried about.

Mary abruptly enters the room, Castiel in tow.

"How's it going, Cas?" Sam asks.

Sighing, he does not reply – he only holds up his hand. His nails have been painted fuchsia. Both Sam and Dean chuckle boisterously at his misfortune, but the angel shakes his hand out and the color disappears.

"Mama when d'we leave?" Mary inquires.

"Soon, honey. You remember where we're going, right?"

"Grandmama's and Grandpapa's?"

"Grandma and Grandpa's, yes."

"And who are they?" Dean tests, ascertaining how much information she's retained.

"Mama's mommy and daddy," she recites dutifully.

"That's right," he praises, ruffling her hair.

"Daddy," she chirps, "d'you have a mommy and daddy?"

Sam stares at his brother raptly, but Dean doesn't falter. "Yes," he answers. "Your Uncle Sammy and I have the same mom and dad – that's why we're brothers."

"Does Mama have a brwother?"

Claire bites her lip. Dean replies, "She used to have two."

"Do I have a brwother?"

Sam coughs loudly and _now_ Dean falters, but he manages, "No."

"Where are your mommy and daddy? Are we gonna meet them too?"

"No, Mare," he starts, "I used to have a mom and dad, but not anymore. Like your mom's brothers."

"Where're they?"

"They're in heaven," Sam interjects.

Mary nods, apparently comprehending. She doesn't press the subject further, because she doesn't like the sad look in her mommy and daddy's eyes.

. . .

Dean will never _ever_ admit it, but he's starting to subscribe to the notion that iPads were the greatest technological innovation of the 21st Century. Because god knows, nothing else could've kept Mary occupied for even a fraction of the car ride.

Ten hours is nothing for Claire and Dean, though, and they make a couple of rest stops along the way.

And soon enough, they find themselves in the very same minuscule town where they first met. Dean only remembers it because it later proved itself significant – otherwise, it would look just the same as all the other Podunk Midwestern towns he's burned through in his long career.

It's dark when they arrive, but not so late that there aren't other cars on the road. They drive slowly through the town, mostly because the Impala doesn't handle well on icy terrain. Dean doesn't stop to think about when he started caring about this, and how much it has to do with the precious cargo in the backseat.

They cruise down the main street, by the church Claire confronted him outside after he killed an assload of demons, and by the tattoo parlor she used to live above. They even drive by _Richard's, _where she worked, where they first laid eyes on one another – part of Claire almost wishes she could claim it was love at first sight, but it absolutely wasn't.

The town looks vastly different from before, only because there is an obscenely thick sheet of snow coating just about everything. The last time they were there – nearly five years ago, now – it was the beginning of summer, and the weather was diametrically opposite.

Lots of other things are different, too. Now, his Impala is chock full of baby crap; now, he's got wrinkles around his eyes; now, Claire's signature locks are about four inches shorter. Now… Those two strangers who met in a pub have created a life of their own, literally and figuratively.

"Who woulda thunk it," he muses aloud.

"Hm?"

"All those years ago, when you somehow found that crappy motel and begged me to take you with me – who woulda thought we'd be back here five years later with a kid?"

"I don't think I '_begged_'," she bristles.

He throws her a sidelong glance and a lopsided grin. "Aw, c'mon, no need to be embarrassed – you definitely begged."

She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. "There are probably some things about that week that you and I remember very differently."

"Probably," he agrees in an identically combative tone.

She watches his profile, softening. "We had some good times though, didn't we? I mean, after we found Sam. Between all the gloom and doom, we had some fun."

"Yeah," he affirms, eyes flitting pointedly to the rearview mirror. "Maybe a little too much fun."

She whacks him lightly on the arm. "Dean," she warns.

"Gotta get it all out of my system before we get to your house," he explains shrewdly.

Claire snickers and says, "Well if that's the case, by all means – continue."

A laidback grin takes over his face; she can see his eyes sparkle, tinged red by the brake lights of the car in front of them. "Remember that case in Tarrytown?"

"What, that coven?"

"Yeah. Remember how you wanted to go all MI6 and infiltrate their ranks? And how we got into that huge fight in that weird underground chamber and then… Well, you never even made it to the initiation ceremony anyway, didja? That was really somethin'…"

"That's a _good_ memory for you?" she balks in disbelief.

"Yeah, I mean…" He lets out a low, appreciative whistle. "That green dress…"

Her expression goes blank as she finally pieces together what he means by '_somethin'._' Then, a bright blush colors her cheeks.

"Oh. Yeah. _That_."

"You never wore it again, after that," he says, sounding far more disappointed than the occasion calls for.

"That's because you destroyed it," she counters.

"Oh. Yeah," he echoes sheepishly. "My bad."

She rolls her eyes again, this time more playfully.

But soon enough they pull up to her childhood home, and all traces of mirth flee her face. Dean parks on the street, across form their rusty old mailbox.

Claire's had homecomings before. She came back from college often, since it wasn't a long distance away, but not so much that she never grew homesick, that there wasn't a certain novelty in returning. And then… Well, her second major homecoming had been under the worst circumstances imaginable. And now that she has a child of her own, she's beginning to realize just how terrible those circumstances were for her parents.

Suffice it to say, there's more than one tragedy tied up in those four walls. It's such an ordinary place, ravaged by such an extraordinary fate.

She never understood why they didn't move, why they didn't get out of the house their son shot himself in. Her mother would've. It was her father. He's stubborn – so stubborn he takes living with that horrid memory as a challenge, a challenge to face head-on every single day.

To her, though, it is nothing more than a shrine to her broken family.

The house remains mostly as she remembers it: daffodil-yellow, with white trimming around the doors and windows. It usually looks warm and sunny in the summer, but in the dead of winter it's just as bleak as everything else. Some of the paint is chipping and the hedges aren't trimmed quite as well as they could be, but there are no glaring signs of disrepair. Her parents always were skilled at maintaining an impeccable façade.

They climb up to the front porch, Mary asleep in Dean's arms. One bag is slung across his body, and the other is draped over Claire's shoulder.

Winter in Illinois is bitterly cold, and it's easy to see Claire's rapid breathing.

The porch light is on, but the glow is muted because the glass is filthy. The second step wobbles, same as it has for years – her father meant to fix it back in 2007, before a landslide of despair got in the way. Looks like he still hasn't gotten around to it.

She rings the doorbell. And innocuous _ding-dong_ resounds through the house, the sound muffled from their perspective.

And then, Claire's mother appears. Vivian Shurley. She has the same fire-red hair she remembers, but there are new lines on her freckled face.

"Claire," she says, hugging her daughter before taking a moment to truly examine her.

When she pulls back, Dean gets a chance to study her appearance – her features, beyond her hair, are not especially close to Claire's. Her eyes are somewhere between whiskey-brown and moss-green, and her lips are thin and drawn. There are already tears winding down her face before she speaks again: "Pat, come here!"

Soon enough Claire's father appears by his wife's side, and Dean notices where his fiancée and daughter gets their striking blue eyes. Her dad is tall, but no taller than he is, with thinning, steel-gray hair.

He appraises Claire with a grim, severe expression before pulling her into a rough embrace. Her face is wet against the porous fabric of his dark polo shirt, and her eyes are burning.

It's not until they've fully inspected their daughter that they turn their attention to the other two guests.

"Mom, Dad, this is Dean," she introduces hesitantly, and when she faces him he sees that she's crying too. "And Mary."

By now, Mary has stirred and is staring at the strangers with bleary eyes and a pout she inherited from her father. Dean shifts his grip on her so he can have a free hand to extend.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Shurley," he says, shaking hands with her father first, and then her mother.

"You're the famous Dean," Vivian murmurs in a way that leaves him searching for meaning. And then she turns to Mary, smiling sweetly. "And you must be the little one we've heard to much about." She reaches for her and tickles her chubby hand, which is holding onto Dean with a vice-grip. Thankfully, she doesn't flinch at the contact.

"Come in, come in," she urges, apparently only just now realizing they're still loitering in sub-zero temperatures.

Once they're all in the house, Vivian asks to hold Mary, and the little girl miraculously cooperates. She must sense that the woman is familiar; she is her grandmother, after all, and maybe there's something about her that reminds her of Claire.

Patrick Shurley takes a step back and scans Dean like a copy-machine, sizing him up. "So you're the boy Claire ran away with all those years ago," he says finally.

Dean appears to be at a loss, so Claire answers blandly, "It's not running away if you're an adult, Dad."

"Sure it is," he says cryptically. "There're all types of running away – I didn't say you ran away from _us_."

They stare at one another, talking without words in a way that only family members can do. Claire's tears must have dried (or turned to ice) before she even stepped inside, because the tracks are gone. She matches his stony intensity, squaring herself to him.

He cracks a grin. "Well, I hope you found whatever it was you were looking for. We've missed you, sweetheart. It's a sin to stay gone for so long."

She smiles back. "I've missed you too. And I promise it won't happen again."

Her dad claps Dean hard on the shoulder, taking him by surprise. His fists ball reflexively, but no one seems to notice. "Don't let her break that promise, you hear?"

Upon realizing that they are not under siege, the other man's mouth twitches into something resembling a smile. "I won't, sir," he manages.

"Claire tells me you two are recently engaged," Vivian coos, eyebrows waggling. Mary must be truly beat, because her blonde little head is lolling against the woman's shoulder.

"Yeah," Claire confirms, weaving her arms around Dean's. "Since Christmas."

"Well, let's see the ring!"

Reluctantly, Claire disentangles her left hand from her fiancé's and explains, "It was his mother's."

"It's lovely," she says approvingly. Her eyes dart to Dean's. "That was very sweet of you. It's nicer when it means something, rather than some bauble."

She doesn't ask any more questions about his mother, and he's tremendously grateful for it. People who've lost someone (like all of them have) are usually attuned to when not to pry. He, for his part, tries not to let his gaze linger on the hanging photographs.

"Took ya long enough to make an honest woman out of her," Patrick mutters dryly, under his breath.

"_Dad_!" Claire admonishes.

Teeth gritted, Dean waves away her outrage and replies, "Nah, he's right. It's been a long time comin', we just… I was away for a long time…"

The older of the two studies him meditatively. "Yeah, Claire mentioned something about that. You do a tour, son? You've got the look."

"Something like that…" he murmurs. "My old man was in the Marines."

Patrick's thick, black eyebrows lift. " 'Nam?"

Dean nods sharply.

"Me too. Just plain ole army, though, and can't say I didn't try my damnedest to avoid it. What a shi-"

"The baby, Pat," Vivian interrupts, before he can commence his profanity-littered tirade about the draft and the horrors of the jungle.

He winces. "Sorry 'bout that. Been awhile since I've been around one of these tykes." The sorrow in his voice is unmistakable, and impossible to miss.

"It's fine," Claire dismisses absently, "Dean is still working on censoring himself, too."

"Well, you all must be exhausted," Vivian says finally. "And hungry. Why don't you go upstairs and get washed up while I finish fixing dinner. Roasted chicken sound okay?"

"Sounds delicious," Dean brown-noses.

Claire snorts, "Dean will eat anything. But that does sound great, Mom." She reaches out for her daughter, and the other redhead transfers her into her arms.

"Mama 'm sleepy," Mary announces, nuzzling her face into her sweater.

"I know, sweetie, but you have to eat something first. Your grandma is making chicken – your favorite!"

"Chicken nuggets?" she mumbles hopefully.

Vivian's smile wavers. "Patrick, you could go out to the store-"

"Mom," she cuts her off, making an axe motion with her hand. "Chicken like Daddy makes," she tells the little girl.

"M'kay," she accepts, her eyelids drooping once again.

It's not until they climb the stairs that Claire's heart begins to race. Halfway up, she turns to Dean. "Can you take her?"

" 'course."

Charlie and Ryan's bedroom was the first one on the left. The door is closed, has been since the EMTs dragged the former out eight years ago. It's been almost a decade, and yet she still feels haunted, still feels a darkness emanating from beneath the whitewashed wood.

Dean's eyes follow her gaze, and he instantly understands the reason for her shaking hands. He presses his palm to her back, right over her warding tattoo, as though strength can be transferred through touch alone.

"You okay?"

Her eyes flutter closed as she steels herself. His efforts are not wasted – he reminds her of everything she has survived since. "Mhm."

Her room is the one across from it, next to the bathroom. She makes a mad dash, throwing the duffel in the corner and flicking on the lights.

Everything is untouched. The walls are still blue-green, her queen-size bed still has the same fluffy white comforter on it. There are framed photos on her dresser, photos of her with her friends from high school, photos of her twenty years ago with one arm draped around each of her little brothers (and towering over both of them).

Dean follows her in and gently lays Mary down on the bed, before dropping the second duffel beside the first. His eyes skim over the room, and then fix on his fiancée.

He sees, now – the family within this home should have been just as nondescript as the structure itself. They were not prepared for what happened to them, and they never could have been. Not that his family could have been prepared for what happened to his mother, but she was a hunter, and her death had been supernatural. This was just… ordinary tragedy destroying ordinary people.

But Claire was a prophet; she was always meant for something more. In 'running away' with him, she'd transcended what had happened and built a new life from the rubble of her old one. The new one has been, perhaps, almost equally fraught, but she has become so much more resilient than she once was. Her parents have not. And returning here is just reminding her of what was taken, and what she left behind.

Dean must admit that they seem like nice enough people; average, and ill equipped to deal with such insurmountable pain. They were tested in ways most people never are, but the test revealed an abundance fissures.

Granted, very few people would withstand the test…

And he is looking at one of them.

His chest swells with newfound pride.

"Claire," he begins quietly, "how're you doing?"

"I'm fine," she lies.

He sees through her, always does. "I know this has gotta be hard for you."

She shoots him a flickering smile, finally meeting his eyes. "Yeah," is all she says.

He bridges the void between them, striding over and taking her hand in his. Tenderly, he lifts her chin so she's forced to maintain eye contact. "You're so strong, Claire. One of the strongest people I've ever known."

She laughs like she doesn't believe him. "Not the first word I'd use to describe myself, but I'll take it."

"You are," he insists. "Don't you ever think otherwise." He presses a kiss to her hairline, holding her close.

Into his chest, she murmurs earnestly, "I know you wouldn't lie about something like that. But… Now that we have Mary, I can't – I can't even _imagine_-"

"Neither can I," he concurs darkly, and he means it.

. . .

Claire is in the kitchen with her mother, while Dean is having a post-dinner drink with her father. Upstairs, Mary is asleep.

As the younger redhead dries the dishes, her mother comments, "Well, he sure is handsome, I'll give him that."

She snickers and says, "Don't let him hear you say that."

"Reminds me a bit of your father, when he was younger."

Claire pauses suddenly, letting the towel drop on the counter. "He's nothing like Dad," she states resolutely. "I know… He may not seem like it, but Dean's not closed-off like Dad is. The two of us… We've been through a lot together. We've had ups and downs. But I can say – _truly _say – that I feel like… like I know every part of him. He's the strongest, most caring man I've ever known. There's no one else like him."

Vivian stares at her daughter inquisitively, like she cannot fathom what they could have possibly been through that was so trying. But the look in her eye speaks volumes – Claire is telling the truth, or at least her version of it.

Vivian turns her attention back to the dishes. "Well then. I'm happy for you, honey. He takes care of you?"

"I would die without him."

Her mother chortles lightly. "No need to be so melodramatic. I just mean… You said his brother also lives with you?"

"Sam," she corrects. "Yeah, he lives with us."

"How does that work?"

"Sam and Dean are as close as…" She halts her sentence, because she knows she doesn't need to continue. The tone – the air in the room – changes drastically, like the lights have been dimmed even though they haven't.

"I see…"

"And I love Sam as if he were my own brother. He's amazing – you should see him with Mary."

"Okay," she allows skeptically. "Still, that has to be a little strange."

"We're used to it," she answers easily. "When Dean was gone… Sam was there."

The other woman's red eyebrows creep upwards, but she doesn't say anything besides, "Where was he? Did he enlist?"

She hates to lie, but there's no other way. "Yeah."

Vivian doesn't question her further because she knows from experience how to identify the look of a man home from war, and Dean certainly has it. "Does he get nightmares?" she asks.

"Sometimes," Claire replies softly. "But then again, don't we all?"

Her mother nods, eyes peering into the soapy sink. She only has one last interrogatory.

"You love him?"

Claire ponders this question for a moment, searching her mind for the most accurate response. Eventually she replies, "So much that I sometimes wish I'd never even met him."

. . .

Meanwhile, in the dining room, Dean is enduring a cross-examination of his own.

Patrick takes a swig of scotch, swallowing it without difficulty. "Where'd you grow up, son?"

Dean takes a sip of his own, because he sure as hell needs it. "Lawrence, Kansas, sir. Not too far from where we live now."

"Lebanon, was it?" he proposes uncertainly, dark brows knitted.

"That's right."

"I'll skip all the routine questions for both our sakes," he starts. "I hate to be boring. What's most important to me is if you're gonna be able to take care of my baby girl and my grandbaby."

"Don't worry about that, sir. I will. I'm working as a mechanic nowadays, but my brother's a real brainiac and he's got some of our money tied up in the stock market. I'll make sure they have the very best. My kid is going to college and hell, maybe even grad school if that's what she wants."

"Mechanic, huh? That a family trade?"

"You could say that, yeah." He supposes he probably shouldn't mention the _other _family trade, or the vamp nest he took out last week.

"And this brother – what's he do?"

"Sam's working at a law firm, and he's thinking of applying to law school. He went to Stanford."

"Huh. Am I supposed to be impressed?" the other man deadpans.

Dean looks as though he stuck his finger in an electrical socket.

Patrick grins and laughs, "I'm just kiddin', son! The look on your face is priceless!"

The younger of the two hazards a grin and takes a generous gulp of his scotch. "Jesus," he mutters to himself.

"So, a mechanic… That car out front – that an Impala? What year is she?"

"'67. She was my dad's."

"Real beauty. I was never any good with that stuff, but I know a nice machine when I see one."

"What do you do, sir?"

"Now? Mostly save up for retirement," he jokes. "But I'm an engineer by training. Not mechanical, before you ask – electrical."

"Ah."

Patrick refills both their glasses. Dean tries desperately not to stare at the family portrait over the other man's right shoulder.

This is the first time he's seen photos of either of Claire's brothers. Ryan was tall and a little scruffy, with brown hair and the same blue eyes as everyone else. Must be a dominant gene, despite what he'd learned in high school. He was in uniform, next to his beaming father. Charlie, on the other hand, had Claire's hair and their mother's greenish eyes, as well as her dense constellation of freckles. They all look happy, in the pictures.

His wandering gaze, however, does not escape Patrick's notice. The older man swallows hard, the taste of alcohol sticking to his palette. The liquor may burn on the way down, but it's not the source of the burning.

"So, when's the wedding?" jars Dean from his perusal.

He stammers, "W-we haven't really gotten much of a chance to talk about it yet. We want to do it before Mary's in school, though."

"Smart." He studies him for a moment, absorbing his presence. Eventually he continues, "You're not what I expected."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Hm?"

"At least when she was younger, Claire always went for those artsy types."

A sly, vaguely impertinent grin finds its way to his face. "Did she?" he asks, tone steeped in curiosity.

"Oh yeah. Can't tell you how many aspiring musicians came through here."

"Not _too_ many, I hope."

At this, Patrick smiles. "No, not too many."

Several beats of silence pass, before Claire and her mother appear in the doorway.

"What're you two talking about?" she questions innocently enough.

"Just your old boyfriends," Dean answers just as innocently.

"Dad!"

"Did I tell you about that one with the earring? What was his name? Liam Mc-something or other?"

"_Dad_!" she repeats in horror.

"Glad to see you boys are getting on so well," Vivian observes.

"Yeah. Lovely. Time to go to bed," Claire interjects.

"But he was just gettin' to the good part," Dean teases.

She shoots him a wary look, but he polishes off his drink before standing.

. . .

"They seem all right," Dean whispers, careful not to wake his two-year-old, who's snoozing in a newly-assembled playpen in the center of the room. Claire had prepared him for much worse, and her parents weren't anything close to the distraught wrecks he'd been expecting.

"They're okay in short doses," she allows, "but whenever _it_ is brought up, they shut down. They can't talk about it, and if they try… That's when it all goes to hell."

Dean nods distantly, the muscle in his jaw flexing as he grinds his teeth. He used to be like that – every time Sam would bring their mother up, he'd lose it.

"It's never going to go away – you know that. It might just take some more time before they can face it," he proposes. "You could hardly talk about it when we first met."

"Yeah, but now it's been almost ten years," she points out.

"Well, they were their _kids_."

"You don't think I cared about them as much?"

"No, of course not, Claire – that's not what I mean… It's just… It's different for them. Kids aren't supposed to die before their parents."

"I know," she allows, more subdued. "And I know they're trying, and I appreciate it. They've been fine so far. How much did my dad drink?"

His eyebrows slam together so swiftly they almost meet. "Only a couple of glasses, why?"

Claire fidgets, sitting on the edge of her bed. Eyes downcast, she replies, "He… Sometimes he used to drink too much."

Dean's face is impassive, because he knows that sometimes _he_ drinks too much, too. And so did his dad. And so did Bobby. And so did Sam, even, for a time.

He has been totally immersed in his own family for so long (for as long as he can recall, really) that it feels bizarre to plunge so suddenly into someone else's. And yet, at the same time, this immersion illuminates certain parallels – parallels that make him feel just a little bit less alone, a little less discrete from the rest of humanity.

He knows there is no humor in the situation, but he wants to make her feel better. He joins her on the bed and pulls her against his chest, breathing in the fruity scent of her shampoo. "Don't we all?" he replies lightly, completely unaware she said these exact words not more than twenty minutes earlier.

She smiles sadly. "I guess you're right."

. . .

_December 31, 2014_

At quarter to twelve, Mary is conked out on the sofa and the majority of the house is sipping champagne.

Seeing Dean drink the bubbly beverage out of a crystal flute is absolutely surreal, in the most absurd sense – how many times has she seen that very same hand clutch a machete or a shotgun or a stake?

It doesn't have much of an effect on him or her father. Claire's mother, on the other hand, is rapidly approaching belligerence.

"We hav'ta watch the ball drop," she hiccups, corralling everyone in front of the television.

Through the flat-screen, they're transported halfway across the country. Times Square is teeming with rowdy spectators, heads tilted unanimously upwards in the direction of a giant, glittering orb.

"You sure I can't getchu a drink, sweetie?" Vivian croons.

"I'm fine, Mom. I think you've had enough for both of us."

She giggles, and Claire goes on, "I would never want to go there for New Years. It looks like total chaos."

"It is," Dean agrees.

"You've been?" Patrick questions.

"Once," he replies, a grin working its way across his face. "When I was younger. My old man brought me and Sam. It wasn't on purpose – we just happened to be there at the time. He'd always hated New York, but after that he _hated _it. We never went back, and he'd complained about how many people there were for like a week after."

"You never told me that," Claire murmurs, and he just shrugs.

"After the war?" Her father lets out a low whistle. "Only a brave man would pack himself in with people like that. To this day I can't stand crowds."

The room becomes somber, until, only a moment later, the countdown commences and fills the silence.

When the ball drops, everyone cheers (onscreen and in the living room), startling Mary awake; the girl watches the scene with wide eyes, utterly silent and un-amused.

Claire and Dean kiss, but quick enough not to cause any scandal, and all the adults then have a turn at cuddling a still-sullen Mary.

"Why're you so _loud_?" she complains, pouting again.

"Sorry, honey," Claire atones.

"Let's get you to bed, kiddo. It's way past your bedtime," Dean adds.

. . .

_January 1, 2015_

After putting Mary to sleep and before helping her parents clean up, Claire and Dean linger in the hallway.

"Dean, I have to tell you something," she stops him as he starts towards the staircase.

"Yeah?"

"I was gonna wait until your birthday, but… Well, you know I'm terrible at keeping secrets from you."

Now, he's beginning to grow worried. Even in the dark, she can see his eyes glimmer with unease and his face harden as he braces himself for some horrible revelation.

"It's nothing bad," she assures, "or at least I hope not."

"What is it?" he questions. "Just spit it out." He is many things, but patient he is not.

"I… I know we talked about this a little bit before… But, I mean, it's so soon after…"

Now, his eyebrows are raised expectantly, urging her to continue.

"I… I'm pregnant," she finishes. "Again."

If Dean Winchester ever looked faint, it's now. He wobbles almost imperceptibly, before scrubbing his hands over his ears as though he must have misheard. "You're… What?"

"Pregnant."

"B-but…" The lull stretches on long enough for them to count the seconds.

"You're not… upset?"

The hurt that flits across her features snaps his heart, and he instantly amends, "No no no, of course not!" He puts his hands on her shoulders to steady the both of them, before continuing, "I'm just… We _just_ had that conversation, like, a month ago. And I mean… Doesn't it take some people like a year? I was expecting a bit of a longer timeline, is all."

"I know," she winces. "We must be… I dunno. Lucky?"

"That's one way of putting it," he mutters. "How do you know?"

"I took a test right before we left. Are you sure you're not-"

"I'm happy, I am," he says, letting out a half-crazed chuckle. "I just can't believe how… fast."

"Everything about this-" she gestures between them "-has been fast."

"True," he allows, searching her face. "Am I the only one who knows?"

"Yeah," she answers quickly. "I mean, it's so early – who knows-"

"Don't talk like that," he chastises softly.

There's a pause, during which time each measures the other, trying to discern their true feelings on the matter. "But this'll be good, right?" she asks weakly. "We agreed we don't want Mary to be an only child."

"Yeah, yeah, it'll be good," he says, trying to come to terms with being a father all over again. Before, he never got an 'I'm pregnant' – what he got was a three-month-old and a 'things changed a lot while you were gone.' He supposes that this time, at least, he'll have a chance to prep.

Starting again, he says, "I'm sorry I reacted like that. You just… caught me off guard."

"Yeah, my timing probably wasn't great," she admits. "It just felt wrong to keep it from you any longer, and I wanted to tell you before you got suspicious and figured it out for yourself."

"C'mere." He draws her into an embrace. With more levity he says, "Jeez, we're hittin' all the milestones at once, aren't we?"

"Now that hunting's pretty much a day job, we have a lot of normal-people stuff to catch up on."

"I guess you're right. All I know is it better be a boy."

He can predict her reaction without even looking at her.

"_Dean!_"

He smiles to himself, because if someone is out there, looking down on him, they must finally _finally _be thinking, _This was how it was meant to be._

* * *

><p><strong>The End<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>AN: A little less fluffy than the first one, but still pretty fluffy. The 'someone' at the end is supposed to be his mom :') And if anyone is curious, I've posted pics of what Claire and her family members are supposed to look like on my page, but for your convenience: Claire (Deborah Ann Woll), Ryan (Jamie Dornan), Charlie (Cameron Monaghan), Patrick (Peter Gallagher), and Vivian (Julianne Nicholson). I love when people give their OCs actor counterparts for some reason, but maybe I'm weird.**

**Happy New Years, everyone! Thanks for reading and stay safe!**


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